After the Rain
Dripping the hollyhocks beneath the wall,
Their fires half quenched, a smouldering red;
A shred of gold upon the grasses tall,
A butterfly is hanging dead.
A sound of trickling waters, like a tune
Set to sweet words; a wind that blows
Wet boughs against a saffron sky; all June
Caught in the breath of one white rose.
Their fires half quenched, a smouldering red;
A shred of gold upon the grasses tall,
A butterfly is hanging dead.
A sound of trickling waters, like a tune
Set to sweet words; a wind that blows
Wet boughs against a saffron sky; all June
Caught in the breath of one white rose.
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